By Foul Craft: Redemption of the Fallen
by Rose Cotton
Summary: According to book canon, the Uruk-Hai were created by interbreeding orcs and humans. This is the story of the human women who were forced to become their mothers. Rating is for dark themes, NOT explicit material.
1. Prologue

By Foul Craft: Redemption of the Fallen

A/N: I've been a lurker since this summer, and I'm so excited about finally being able to make a contribution! There are so many wonderful fanfic writers here. I hope this small offering shows my thanks to you all. This is the first piece I've posted on this website, so be nice with your criticisms, please! (Constructive criticism is certainly welcome, though—it just seems like most flaming is more antagonistic than constructive.) I may not update that often, so be patient with me—I'll get around to it eventually. J 

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Prologue

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Orthanc, Isengard; June 1, 2990, T.A.

Amidst a circle of stones lay an ancient citadel not made by human hands.

The spotlessly stained black spires jutted at sharp angles into the even blacker sky.

Lightning struck the ground, illuminating the desiccated and barren land with a garish white light. Storms had come to this place frequently lately, though not a drop touched the ground.

Deep within the tower, two figures sat together in council. The first: a tall being like a man, dressed in robes that appeared white but that shimmered with the colors of the rainbow when he moved. His hair, long and sleek and white; his hands elegant; his fingers slender; his nose long; his cheekbones and forehead high and noble; his eyes dark and piercing. He was handsome, suave, sophisticated, with a worldly air about him and a charming manner—when he had his way. The second: also tall, though not as much so, with straight black hair, a high forehead, black eyes glittering and beady, a face that would be handsome but for its hideous frowns and more hideous grins. He wore a black cloak over his black garments.

The one in white turned to the one in black. On his face was an expression of utter calm, as if he were discussing the weather. "Are all the arrangements made, Pharanor?" he said.

"Yes, Lord Saruman," replied the one in black. "Project Uruk-Hai is well underway. The gestation, birthing and training centers are ready. Overseers have been appointed for all of them. The volunteer males have been selected, the finest breed of orcs that could be found. They all possess the blood of warriors and will produce excellent stock."

"What about the females?"

"Ah, the human women. Your armies have been sent to procure them, my lord. We have dispatched troops to nearby Rohan, and also to the countries of Near Harad, where you have long labored. They should arrive within a few weeks."

"Is there any chance of failure?"

"No, my lord. Our forces are strong, and their leaders are intelligent—that is, the most intelligent that orcs can be." This last he uttered under his breath in a tone of contempt, and the one in white glared at him. The one in black hurriedly continued. "They will not be discovered. It will be made to look like an accident."

"Good. We are almost ready. Soon I will begin the breeding of a new race, one that will be victorious over Middle-Earth. I will show Lord Sauron that his servant is loyal. And if he does not believe me… well, we shall see." The one in white ended his reflection and focused his gaze once more upon the one in black. "Be sure that the human females are not harmed. They must be kept safe if they are to successfully birth children. And do not let the troops who capture them touch them before the chosen ones do, or the blood of the offspring might be tainted. Bring them to me alive and unspoiled."

"As you wish, my lord." The one in black bowed, and the one in white nodded his head in dismissal.

As black and white mingled together on that fateful night, the earth herself wept.


	2. Chapter 1: Jambola

A/N: Thank you to my reviewers! I never realized how encouraging a review could be until I started posting stuff here myself. I'm definitely going back now and giving nice reviews to _all_ the great stuff I read this summer, even if it's really old. Returning the favor and all that. J 

As the word "Harad" only means "south," I have chosen to interpret this as the Northerners' name for all the southern lands, and not the name of a specific kingdom. Therefore, Harad is actually made up of many different kingdoms. I don't know if Tolkien created a language for Harad, so I made up one, based roughly on some type of African language.

Ellipsis: Good question. I can see how my wording was confusing. Where I'm from (Florida), it's perfectly possible to have a lot of thunderstorms and no rain. So I sort of meant the comment in that way, but I was also not being entirely literal, trying instead to go for a surrealistic, dramatic stance. Hopefully the added phrase should clear things up. Thanks for catching me.

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Chapter 1: Jambola

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Jambola, Ulaka (Near Harad); June 5, 2990 T.A.

"Mikele! Mikele! _Usta punaka, muki_!"

"Coming, Mother!"

Fifteen-year-old Mikele straightened the beads of her necklace, brushed any lingering dust off her skirt, and dashed out of the grass hut. Once outside, she came abruptly to a halt, trying to look as if she had walked out gracefully and elegantly, like a lady.

Anisha frowned in disapproval at her daughter. She grabbed her hand and began briskly walking down the street. "Come. We are already late. Do you wish to impress the shaman with your tardiness?"

Mikele, as usual, found herself lifting her chin a little in reply. She dared not reply to her mother, but she would _not_ let herself be treated as a child. She maintained a haughty silence as the two walked down the street.

"One would think that my daughter would have the good sense to be punctual for one of the most important events of her life," said Anisha with a huff.

Mikele wisely chose to ignore this and instead asked, "Where is Father?"

"He had business to attend to in the city. He will meet us there."

Another morning had come to the city of Jambola, capital of Ulaka. Mikele found herself reveling in the sights, sounds and smells that assailed her senses. The dirt road was filled with bustling pedestrians, wheelbarrows, and occasionally a _mûmak_ for nobility. The only traffic rule was that commoners made room for more important people. As a result, there was always much jostling and shoving.

As the daughter of a merchant, Mikele was neither upper class nor lower class. She sniffed in disdain at the wails of the impoverished plebeians as they begged for bread or tried to steal coins from those wealthier than they. Such was life, and it would do no good to pay the commoners any heed; that would only make them bolder.

Above the din arose a high-pitched cry that pierced the ears of those who heard it. Mikele turned her head to see a slave being whipped by his master. His back was bare and laced with many red stripes; a golden earring ornamented his right ear, and upon his right shoulder was a brand with the _J_ rune. His master was obviously wealthy: he wore much gold jewelry, and a turban sat upon his head. His clothes were of five colors, the sign of nobility, and his sandals were of fine make.

Mikele heard people murmuring to each other. "I wonder what the slave did?"

"I heard that he stole a loaf of bread. It is surprising that his master does not kill him."

"Perhaps he finds the slave still useful. Then again, he may be whipping him as a warning to others, only to kill him later."

Shuddering at the grisly sight of crimson blood running down the man's brown back, Mikele turned away and continued walking with her mother.

They were now come to the marketplace. Having occasionally come here with one of her parents, Mikele recognized many of the vendors selling goods. She smelled bread, fresh fish, and goat cheese, as well as the stench of too many people packed too closely together. She glanced rather disinterestedly at the sight of the colorful jewelry and carpets on display. Normally her mother would have stopped to greet and barter with the other merchants, but today they were in a hurry.

One thing did catch her interest, though: the storyteller. She heard him before she saw him, his melodic voice lilting with each phrase he uttered. Surrounding him was a crowd of both young and old. As with the street musicians, he would be paid by satisfied listeners upon finishing his tale.

"So there I was," the man was saying, "surrounded by the barbaric White-skins of the North. They leered at me with their hideous teeth, and were about to roast me alive, for all know that the Northerners are cannibals who sacrifice their own children." Several people shuddered at this, and mothers pulled their children close to their breasts. "Then, by the mercy of the great god Lombura, an idea suddenly struck me, a plan of escape. I—"

"Mikele! Hurry up!" Anisha scolded. "We shall be late." With a firm grasp, she grabbed her daughter's hand and wrenched her away from the storyteller. Mikele gasped as pain shot up her arm, and she bit her tongue in frustration, glancing wistfully back at the storyteller as she walked away.

Soon Mikele could see the shaman's hut. It was marked by a long red pole which stood beside it, upon which a skull was set. All the other maidens—about fifteen or so—were already present and knelt on the ground outside the hut, while their families stood to the sides. Mikele recognized her father, Bayusho, standing with the men. She quickly dropped to her knees beside the other young women.

She found herself kneeling next to Risheda, the most gorgeous girl in the city, and probably the worst gossip as well. "What took you so long?" Risheda whispered.

"I lost track of time," Mikele answered curtly. She did not wish to add that she had been daydreaming again, knowing that the others would only laugh at her.

"Well, I'm certainly glad you made it here in time. The gods only know what might have happened if you had been late. I heard that Tatalguo is in a bad mood today. Oh, well, it doesn't matter now that you're here. Don't you think Iskembe's dress is absolutely _horrid?"_ The girl chattered on, unaware that Mikele was not paying attention.

A sudden noise from the hut made them all stop their whispering immediately and become completely still. Mikele heard the rustling of the grass covering being pushed aside, then the footsteps of Tatalguo, the shaman. Although none of the maidens could look up unless spoken to, Mikele managed to angle her head so that she could see him. He was a fat man, his belly protruding out from his unattractive figure like a bowl. He wore red paint upon his thighs, forehead, and cheeks. Upon his neck faintly jingled a necklace of teeth. He stared at the young women, slowly craning his short neck to look at each of them in turn. Mikele was quick to lower her head when he looked at her.

After a long silence, Tatalguo spoke. "Listen to my words!" he boomed. "Today, you have brought your daughters here to ask for blessings in their upcoming marriages. I call upon the gods for their blessings, the god Oaka of fertility, the goddess Laribe of the virgins, and most of all, the high god Lombura, Lord of the heavens and of the earth. May they bless these unions and bring prosperity to your daughters. May your daughters produce many sons, and may their husbands harvest much grain. May the gods smile down upon you and your descendants, now and forevermore."

Now began the next part of the ceremony. Drums were brought forth, and the men who were gathered began beating on them. The shaman's assistant brought him the leaves from the sacred _kishnu_ plant, which had been burned. Mikele felt the pungent and sweet aroma wash over her, as Tatalguo began wafting the smoke from the leaves in the direction of the maidens. Then Tatalguo began to chant the sacred song, and Mikele felt herself falling under its spell.

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"O, gava jingala, 

Likotura punaka, 

Homiye ngastawa, 

Ustanta rewiloba…"

The drums beat faster and faster. The maidens rose and danced, slapping their thighs in time with the music. Then when the traditional dance of the virgins was over, all the people danced together, as they called upon their gods for blessings. This lasted for several hours until, finally exhausted, the drummers stopped their rhythmic pounding. The people thanked Tatalguo profusely and prepared to return home.

Bayusho walked up to his wife and daughter and smiled at them. "So, how fares my _mukita?"_

"I am well, Father," Mikele replied, smiling shyly in return. She had always possessed a fairly close relationship with her father—something her peers considered astonishing, as everyone knew a father should be harsh and authoritative. "I am glad to be able to honor my family in this way." 

"That is good. Come, we must go." He led them back to their hut, while Mikele pondered over the events of the day. It was true that she was happy to honor her family, especially seeing as how her father's business had not been good lately. He needed a son-in-law to help him. But she did not relish the idea of leaving everything she had ever known to be married to a man she had never met. Her intended, Ngomji, lived in the town of Ragawiya, north of Jambola. He was a wealthy man, already possessing two wives. Mikele thought bitterly to herself that if her family was better off, they could afford to save her to be some wealthy man's first wife. As it was, she knew she would never come first again.

Mikele and her family did not go straight home. They instead went from hut to hut visiting their friends and relatives, as was custom for the day before a wedding. Mikele's family was congratulated on their good fortune, and her beauty praised. "She will make Ngomji very happy," they said, and Mikele hoped it was true. She silently admitted with a little smugness that she _was_ indeed attractive, though far from truly beautiful. Unlike most Ulakans, her hair was soft and shiny, not brittle or dry. Her dark brown eyes blazed with intelligence and fire, and her features were pleasing to the eye. She was rather short for her people, but that was not considered a fault.

After much talk and even more food, Mikele and her parents walked home. She was greeted by her younger brother, Maskit. "Hello, Mikele!" he exclaimed, and she grinned and ran to hug him. "Hello, little brother," she said. "How was your day?"

"Well," the ten-year-old replied, "Jonge taught me how to tan a hide, and I did one all by myself. He said I did a really good job, too!" 

Mikele smiled as Maskit continued chattering. She had three older brothers and one older sister, but Maskit was her only younger sibling. He had recently begun to learn a trade, and was now apprenticed to her eldest brother, Jonge the tanner. He seemed to truly enjoy his work, and Mikele was glad for this. At any rate, it kept him out of her hair.

Mikele helped her mother prepare the evening meal—bread, goat cheese, dates, and soup made with the meat of an antelope. After they were finished, Mikele cleaned up. Then she went outside.

The sunsets in Jambola were nothing short of gorgeous; they always took her breath away. The sky was ablaze in a brilliant display of crimson, orange, salmon, and gold. She saw her brother sitting there, playing absentmindedly with a pebble in his hands. She wondered about his moodiness; normally he was not reflective, choosing instead to always be doing something. She sat down next to him and pulled her knees up to her chest.

For a time, neither one spoke. Finally Mikele said, "What is on your mind, _bakito?"_

He hesitated. "Mikele?" he said. "You're going away, aren't you?"

Mikele sighed sadly. "Yes, Maskit," she said, "I am."

"Will I… will I ever see you again?"

A wave of pain washed over her, wrenching her heart. "Oh, dear brother," she said, "I hope so. I do. And I think so. After all, Ngomji will _have_ to travel south sometimes, won't he? And surely I can come visit then. Don't worry; everything will be fine."

He turned then and gave her the oddest look. In that moment it seemed as if he were the adult and she just a child, and he knew something she did not. His eyes held great sadness. But in a flash, the moment was gone, and he was just her little brother again. He shot her his cheeky grin and then ran off to play.

Mikele lay in bed long before sleep took her that night, thinking about all the changes that the next day would bring.

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"Usta punaka, muki!": "Come now, daughter!"

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mûmak: An oliphaunt. (This word is actually Tolkien's, not mine.)

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kishnu: A plant similar to marijuana, used by shamans for sacred ceremonies.

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mukita: Literally, "little daughter." Used as a term of endearment.

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bakito: "Little brother."

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"O, gava jingala,

Likotura punaka, 

Homiye ngastawa,

Ustanta rewiloba…"

"Oh, great deities,

Hear our humble plea now,

As we gather in this sacred place,

And grant us mercy and peace."


	3. Chapter Two: The Picnic

A/N: Tolkien writes very little about day-to-day life in Rohan.  Therefore, I have taken a few liberties.  For the sake of this story, there are two elements that can be considered as slightly AU.  Appendix B in TLOTR says that from sometime between 2957 and 2980 T.A., Aragorn served in Gondor and Rohan under the alias of Thorongil.  I have extended this so that he is still in Rohan during the time of this story.  Also, the Appendix is not clear as to when Gríma Wormtongue became a traitor, but I have assumed that this happened a short while before the beginning of this story.

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**Chapter Two: The Picnic**

_Edoras, Rohan; __June 27, 2990__, T.A._

Silvawyn awoke to the sweet singing of a canary outside her window.  She dressed quickly and opened the window, smiling at the bird as she did so.  "Good morning, little one," she said.  "A beautiful morning, isn't it?"  Singing herself, she went downstairs.  "Good morning, Mother."

"Good morning, Silvawyn," replied Fréolda.  "Are you hungry yet?  I just made breakfast."

"To be honest, I'm starving," the twenty-five-year-old replied with a smile, as she grabbed a plate and began dishing out food.

"Do not eat too much!" Fréolda exclaimed.  "You will not have an appetite for the picnic later today."

Silvawyn smiled.  "I'm very much looking forward to it."

"I know you are.  This will be your tenth year going with the young ladies, will it not?"

Silvawyn groaned.  "Don't remind me.  You are only saying that I am far too old to be still unmarried."

"Not necessarily.  Your friend Princess Théodwyn married only recently, did she not?  And she is about your age.  The right man will come along at the right time.  Do not worry, daughter."

Silvawyn nodded.  "So," she said, "what will you and Father be doing today?"

"Well, I have been hoping to spend some time on that quilt while you and your brother were gone," said Fréolda.  

"But Mother, it's still summertime!"

"I know that.  But come autumn, I will be too busy to work on it much.  I want to finish it as soon as I can."  Fréolda sat down and ate a few bites of porridge.  "And your father, I believe, will be working."

"Not today, surely!  This is a national holiday."

"He has told me that he has a good deal of paperwork to catch up on.  Today would be an ideal time to work on it, while the young people are away.  In fact, he already left for work, just a few minutes before you awoke."

Silvawyn shook her head.  "Honestly, when will he learn to let go and relax?"

"I know, dearest," Fréolda replied with a sigh.  "But what can we do?"

"So where is Silvoden?" she asked.

Right on cue, her brother bounded down the stairs.  "Morning, Mother!  Morning, sis."  He gave them both a quick peck on the cheek, as they greeted him.  Grabbing a few pieces of bacon and bread with jam, he said, "I've got to run.  I wanted to meet with Grimbold and Helmwine to discuss a few things before the outing today."

"Not you too!" Fréolda exclaimed.  "You are turning into your father, that's for certain."

"Thank you," Silvoden responded with a grin.  "Well, I've got to go."  He dashed away, biting into a piece of bacon as he did so.

Silvawyn and her mother looked at each other and, as one, sighed and shook their heads.  _Men._

Silvawyn's father was a trusted official in the king's court, and as such her family was fairly well off.  He had been very renowned during the reign of the late King Thengel; but his future serving King Théoden, who had only been crowned a few months ago, remained to be seen.  Silvawyn's brother, only a few years older than she, was already beginning to win fame as well.  He was a strong warrior and a cunning strategist, and had been made a captain of the guard in Edoras, despite his youth.  Courageous, steadfast, and responsible, he was respected by all, as was his father.  If Silvawyn had known it, she was regarded in high esteem as well; for she was a gentle, kind young woman, and only Princess Théodwyn surpassed her in loveliness.

But this morning Silvawyn was not given to mulling over any of this.  She was far too excited about the day's events.  Every year, the young men and young women of Edoras took the day off and left the city, going to the beautiful countryside that surrounded it.  The men usually went hunting in the forest, and the women picked flowers in the meadow, talked, and did the sorts of things that were generally referred to as "May-ing" (though it was June and not May).  Afterwards, both groups gathered together as one and enjoyed a picnic lunch.  It was a festive event, made all the more lighthearted and merry because only the youth of the city participated.  Many of these were still unmarried; but despite Silvawyn's complaint, many married women went as well.  In fact, her friend Princess Théodwyn, now married for nearly six months to Éomund, would be going with her.

As the event did not begin for a few hours, Silvawyn had some time to herself.  She cleaned up after breakfast and practiced her singing, thinking as she did so of how grateful she was for the opportunity.  As a member of the upper class, she had been educated in the humanities, though not in mathematics or science (being a woman).  She could not imagine what it would be like to not be able to read and draw and sing and dance.  Though she and those around her normally spoke in the native Rohirric of her people, she was fairly good at Westron, if not quite fluent.  Her favorite subject was music, and she loved singing above all.  She smiled as she began a beautiful melody.

Meanwhile, Silvoden was meeting with Grimbold and Helmwine, fellow captains, to discuss some plans for training new troops.  "What do you think of this one?" he asked the two.

Helmwine, the eldest, shook his head.  "Far too expensive.  And there's no guarantee it will work.  Do you have any ideas, Grimbold?"

Grimbold laid out his plan, but Helmwine shook his head at that as well.  "It won't work," he said.

Grimbold frowned.  "What did _you have in mind?"_

Helmwine hesitated.  "I'm not really sure."  They were still mulling over this when they heard another voice break in.  "Mind if I join you, gentlemen?"

Three heads looked up to see who was speaking.  Silvoden gasped.  "Captain Thorongil!  Of course you can join us, sir."

Thorongil smiled cryptically as he sat down across the table.  "What seems to be the problem?"

Helmwine explained what they were doing; and within a few minutes, Thorongil had an idea mapped out that pleased everyone.

Thorongil was a much esteemed captain, and was held somewhat in awe by most of the soldiers and officers, Silvoden included.  Very little was known about the mysterious man.  He apparently had served Ecthelion of Gondor before coming to Rohan, but it was said that he was not truly Gondorian.  No one knew what his origins were, or even how old he was; and he said very little about himself.  Many women had expressed an interest in him, yet he remained politely aloof.  He spent most of his time abroad on different missions for the king, but had been serving with the guard in Edoras since the coronation of King Théoden.

The three young captains thanked Thorongil profusely as he left.  "I shall see you later today at the picnic," said Thorongil as he made to leave.

"Oh," exclaimed Silvoden, "are you going to that?"

"I wouldn't miss it."  Saluting them, which they returned, Thorongil left.

Their problem now solved, the three turned their conversation to lighter things.  "So, how is the wife, Helmwine?" asked Grimbold, and Helmwine blushed.  Silvoden and Grimbold laughed heartily.  Helmwine had only recently been married, and he had just come back from his honeymoon one week ago.  

"I don't see why you're laughing about it," Helmwine said with a good-natured scowl.  "Pretty soon, it will be your turn as well."

"Yes, Grimbold," said Silvoden, amused.  "Do you have your eyes on anyone yet?"

"Well…" he began, but stopped.  The other two pressed him to say more, and finally he admitted, "I've been thinking about speaking to your father Silmund about seeing Silvawyn, to be honest."

Silvoden was surprised at this, but glad for it.  "Does Silvawyn know?"  
  


"I don't think she has any idea."

  
"Well, good luck, old fellow!  I can think of worse brothers-in-law to have than you… I think," Silvoden teased, and Grimbold punched him playfully.

"What about you, Sil?" asked Helmwine.  "Do you have any prospects?"

Silvoden shrugged.  "I haven't really thought about it much.  I guess I'm just not ready yet."  

Helmwine groaned.  "Neither am I!" he said, and the other two laughed.

Her morning lessons finished, Silvawyn went to meet her friend.  She and Théodwyn were to be going together to the town square, where all the young people participating would gather together before setting out.  Standing at the entrance to the magnificent Golden Hall of Meduseld, Silvawyn announced herself to a guard.  He let her in, and she made her way to Éomund's and Théodwyn's chambers.

"Oh, Silvawyn!  I didn't hear you enter.  Hello."  Théodwyn walked into the parlor, and Silvawyn looked at her in mild alarm.  Her face was pale, and her damp hair clung to her skull.  She looked exhausted.

  
"Théodwyn, are you all right?" asked Silvawyn.

Théodwyn waved aside her friend's concerns.  "It's just the morning sickness," she explained.  "I've been having an awful time with it.  The midwife says that's to be expected with a first pregnancy.  But I don't think I'm feeling up to going to the picnic today."

"What a shame!" Silvawyn exclaimed.  "I'm so sorry."

"It's all right.  I'll be able to go next year, I'm sure."  Pulling out a couple of chairs, she sat down in one.  "Do you have a few minutes to chat before you go to the town square?"  
  
"Certainly."  Silvawyn sat down as well.  "So, what do you think?  Boy or girl?"

Théodwyn smiled.  "Well, Éomund has his heart set on a girl, but I think that it's a boy.  When he asks me how I can be so sure, I say, 'I just know.'"

"Have you thought about names yet?"

"We've thought about it a good deal, but we haven't decided anything for certain yet."  She laughed suddenly.  "We were both a little surprised to discover that I was pregnant already—for some reason, we thought it would take longer.  But I'm very, very glad to be having a child.  Maybe my firstborn will be some comfort to my brother," she added, a shadow clouding her face.

Silvawyn frowned slightly.  "How is the king?"

"He says he's all right, but I don't know.  It can be so hard to tell with him sometimes.  He just shuts things away inside himself.  He still hasn't really recovered from losing his wife when she gave birth to Théodred two years ago.  And now to have lost Father and be given the responsibility of king—it's quite a load.  I myself don't know what I would have done if I hadn't had Éomund to comfort me."  She looked at Silvawyn and smiled.  "And you, of course."  Silvawyn smiled back.

Théodwyn fell silent and her face darkened.  "Théodwyn, what's wrong?" asked Silvawyn.

She sighed.  "I don't know exactly.  But something has been troubling me.  It has to do with Gríma."  She said nothing more for a minute.  "I don't know.  I can't really explain it, but I just have a funny feeling.  Théoden spends so much time in counsel with him.  Isn't that a little odd?"

Silvawyn shrugged.  "Well, Gríma _was a friend of his since childhood.  Many of the people believe that was one of the main reasons King Théoden appointed him as his chief minister after your father died, because he wanted someone he was familiar with and felt comfortable with."_

Théodwyn nodded slowly.  "Yes, I know."  She shook herself out of her reverie.  "Oh, well.  It's nothing to worry about, I suppose."  Glancing up at the grandfather clock, she gasped.  "Look at the time!  I mustn't keep you any longer.  Go on, Silvawyn, and have a good time.  You must tell me all about it later."  
  
"I will, I promise," said Silvawyn, smiling.  "Goodbye!"

The town square was crowded with many of the young men and women of the city.  There was no specific age limit, though most of the ones who came were between sixteen and thirty.  The excitement was almost tangible, as people chatted gaily with one another.  After all were gathered, they set out. 

Later, Silvawyn stood on a beautiful hillside, watching as the other young women laughed and talked and did each other's hair and played games.  Her spirit soared in elation, and she thanked the gods for her wonderful life.  Truly, this was a perfect day.


End file.
